1. Sidorova Valentina Alexandrovna

2. Tatiana Tolstaya “River Okkervil”

3. Literature

4. For grades 8-11

5. Target: create page Wiki -textbook based on T. Tolstoy’s story “The Okkervil River”

Tasks:- comprehensively study the story of T. Tolstoy;

- developing the skills to independently obtain information, interpret text, argue one’s opinion, and evaluate other students;

- fostering respect and tolerance for other people.

Planned results :

ü Creating a project based on a work

ü Developing skills to work in the system Wiki

ü Openly express your thoughts in the article, taking into account existing statements

ü To develop students' logical and critical thinking while developing written language.

6. Forms of work:individual, pair, group, collective

Work plan:

ü introduce the purpose of the project and the requirements for participation in it;

ü reading T. Tolstoy’s story “The Okkervil River”;

ü choosing a topic for research and writing an article

ü creating a detailed text (article) with hyperlinks to other works

ü reading and commenting on classmates' work

ü roadmapping

ü grading other work

ü collective discussion of the project, summing up.

7. Compliance with Federal State Educational Standards:

ü independence of work performance by students,

ü activity approach

ü creating a project

ü development of critical thinking, etc.

8. Text

Tatiana Tolstaya

Okkervil River

When the zodiac sign changed to Scorpio, it became very windy, dark and rainy. The wet, flowing, wind-beating city behind the defenseless, uncurtained, bachelor window, behind the processed cheeses hidden in the cold between the windows, seemed then to be the evil intent of Peter the Great, the revenge of the huge, bug-eyed, gaping-mouthed, toothed carpenter king, who was catching up with everything in nightmares, with a ship's hatchet in his raised hand, his weak, frightened subjects. The rivers, having reached the swollen, terrifying sea, rushed back, snapped cast-iron hatches with a hissing pressure and quickly raised their watery backs in museum basements, licking fragile collections falling apart with damp sand, shaman masks made of rooster feathers, curved overseas swords, beaded robes, sinewy legs angry employees woken up in the middle of the night. On days like these, when the white, curdled face of loneliness emerged from the rain, the darkness, and the bending glass of the wind, Simeonov, feeling especially big-nosed, balding, especially aware of his old age around his face and the cheap socks far below, on the border of existence, put the kettle on, He wiped the dust off the table with his sleeve, cleared the space of books with their white bookmarks sticking out, set up the gramophone, selecting a book of the right thickness to slip under its lame corner, and in advance, blissfully in advance, extracted Vera Vasilyevna from the torn, yellow-stained envelope - an old, heavy, anthracite-shimmering circle, not split into smooth concentric circles - one romance on each side.

- No, not you! so ardent! I! I love! – jumping, crackling and hissing, Vera Vasilyevna quickly twirled under the needle; hissing, crackling and whirling curled like a black funnel, expanded with a gramophone pipe, and, triumphant in victory over Simeonov, rushed from the scalloped orchid divine, dark, low, at first lacy and dusty, then swelling with underwater pressure, rising from the depths, transforming, swaying with lights on the water , - psch-psch-psch, psch-psch-psch, - a voice puffing like a sail, - ever louder, - breaking the ropes, rushing uncontrollably, psch-psch-psch, like a caravel across the night water splashing with lights - ever stronger, - spreading its wings, picking up speed, smoothly breaking away from the lagging thickness of the stream that gave birth to it, from the small one remaining on the bank of Simeonov, who raised his balding, barefoot head to a gigantically grown, shining, eclipsing half of the sky voice, emanating in a victorious cry - no, it was not him that Vera Vasilievna loved so passionately , and yet, in essence, only him, and this was mutual between them. H-sch-sch-sch-sch-sch-sch-sch.

Simeonov carefully removed the silent Vera Vasilievna, rocked the disk, clasping it with straightened, respectful palms; looked at the old sticker: eh, where are you now, Vera Vasilievna? Where are your white bones now? And, turning her over on her back, he set the needle, squinting at the prune reflections of the swaying thick disk, and again listened, languishing, about the long-faded chrysanthemums in the garden, where they met her, and again, growing in an underwater flow, throwing off dust, lace and years, Vera Vasilievna crackled and appeared like a languid naiad - an unsportsmanlike, slightly overweight naiad of the beginning of the century - oh sweet pear, guitar, sloping champagne bottle!

And then the kettle began to boil, and Simeonov, having fished out processed cheese or ham scraps from the interwindow, put the record on from the beginning and feasted like a bachelor, on a spread newspaper, enjoying himself, rejoicing that Tamara would not overtake him today and would not disturb his precious date with Vera Vasilievna . He felt good in his solitude, in a small apartment, alone with Vera Vasilyevna, and the door was tightly locked from Tamara, and the tea was strong and sweet, and the translation of an unnecessary book from a rare language was almost finished - there would be money, and Simeonov would buy it from one crocodile for a high price, a rare record where Vera Vasilievna yearns that spring will not come for her - a male romance, a romance of loneliness, and the ethereal Vera Vasilievna will sing it, merging with Simeonov into one yearning, heartbroken voice. O blissful solitude! Loneliness eats from a frying pan, fishes a cold cutlet out of a cloudy liter jar, brews tea in a mug - so what? Peace and freedom! The family rattles the china cabinet, sets traps for cups and saucers, catches the soul with a knife and fork, grabs it under the ribs on both sides, strangles it with a teapot cap, throws a tablecloth over its head, but the free, lonely soul slips out from under the linen fringe and passes snake through the napkin ring and - hop! catch it! she is already there, in a dark magic circle filled with lights, outlined by the voice of Vera Vasilievna, she runs out after Vera Vasilievna, following her skirts and fan, from the bright dancing hall to the night summer balcony, to a spacious semicircle above the garden fragrant with chrysanthemums, however, their the smell, white, dry and bitter - this is an autumn smell, it already foreshadows autumn, separation, oblivion, but love still lives in my sick heart - this is a sick smell, the smell of decay and sadness, somewhere you are now, Vera Vasilievna, perhaps in Paris or Shanghai, and what kind of rain - the blue of Paris or the yellow of China - is drizzling over your grave, and whose soil is chilling your white bones? No, it’s not you that I love so passionately! (Tell me! Of course, me, Vera Vasilievna!)

Trams passed by Simeonov's window, once shouting their bells, swinging with hanging loops like stirrups - Simeonov kept thinking that there, in the ceilings, horses were hidden, like portraits of the tram's great-grandfathers, taken out into the attic; then the bells fell silent, only the knocking, clanging and grinding at the turn could be heard, finally, the red-sided solid carriages with wooden benches died, and the carriages began to run round, silent, hissing at stops, you could sit down, plop down on the soft chair that gasped and expired under you and ride into the blue distance, to the final stop, which beckoned with the name: “Okkervil River”. But Simeonov never went there. The end of the world, and there was nothing for him to do there, but that’s not even the point: without seeing, without knowing this distant, almost no longer Leningrad river, he could imagine anything he wanted: a muddy greenish stream, for example, with a slow, muddy the green sun floating in it, silvery willows, branches quietly hanging from the curly bank, red brick two-story houses with tiled roofs, wooden humpbacked bridges - a quiet world, slowed down like in a dream; but in reality there are probably warehouses, fences, some nasty little factory spitting out pearlescent toxic waste, a landfill smoking with stinking smoldering smoke, or something else, hopeless, outlying, vulgar. No, don’t be disappointed, go to the Okkervil River, it’s better to mentally line its banks with long-haired willows, arrange steep-topped houses, let in leisurely residents, perhaps in German caps, striped stockings, with long porcelain pipes in their teeth... or better yet, pave the Okkervils with paving stones embankments, fill the river with clean gray water, build bridges with turrets and chains, level granite parapets with a smooth pattern, put tall gray houses along the embankment with cast-iron gateway grates - let the top of the gate be like fish scales, and nasturtiums peeking out from the forged balconies, settle a young woman there Vera Vasilievna, and let her walk, pulling on a long glove, along the cobblestone pavement, placing her feet narrowly, stepping narrowly in black, blunt-toed shoes with round, apple-like heels, in a small round hat with a veil, through the quiet drizzle of the St. Petersburg morning, and the fog of such serve blue for the occasion.

Bring on the blue fog! The fog has set, Vera Vasilyevna passes, tapping her round heels, the entire paved section, specially prepared, held by Simeonov’s imagination, this is the border of the scenery, the director has run out of funds, he is exhausted, and, tired, he dismisses the actors, crosses out the balconies with nasturtiums, gives the lattice to those who wish with a pattern like fish scales, snaps granite parapets into the water, stuffs bridges with turrets into pockets - the pockets are bursting, chains hang like from an grandfather's clock, and only the Okkervil River, narrowing and widening, flows and cannot choose a stable appearance for itself.

Simeonov ate processed cheese, translated boring books, sometimes brought women in the evenings, and the next morning, disappointed, sent them away - no, not you! - he blocked himself from Tamara, who kept coming up with washing clothes, fried potatoes, colorful curtains on the windows, who all the time carefully forgot important things at Simeonov’s, then hairpins, then a handkerchief - by the night she urgently needed them, and she came across the whole city, - Simeonov put out the light and stood breathless, pressed against the ceiling in the hallway while it was bursting - and very often he gave in, and then he ate hot food for dinner and drank strong tea from a blue and gold cup with homemade powdered brushwood, and Tamara went back, it was, of course, late, the last tram had left, and it certainly couldn’t get to the foggy river Okkervil, and Tamara fluffed the pillows while Vera Vasilievna, turning her back, not listening to Simeonov’s excuses, walked along the embankment into the night, swaying on round, like an apple, heels.

Autumn was thickening when he bought from another crocodile a heavy disc chipped from one edge - they haggled, arguing about the flaw, the price was very high, and why? - because Vera Vasilyevna has been completely forgotten, her short, sweet last name will not be heard on the radio, nor will her short, gentle surname flash through in quizzes, and now only sophisticated eccentrics, snobs, amateurs, aesthetes, who want to throw money away on the ethereal, chase after her records, catch , they string her onto the pins of gramophone turntables, and record her low, dark voice, shining like expensive red wine, onto tape recorders. But the old woman is still alive, said the crocodile, she lives somewhere in Leningrad, in poverty, they say, and ugliness, and she did not shine for long in her time, she lost diamonds, a husband, an apartment, a son, two lovers, and, finally, the voice - in this exact order, and she managed to cope with these losses until she was thirty years old, since then she hasn’t been singing, but she’s still alive. That’s how Simeonov thought, his heart heavy, and on the way home, across bridges and gardens, across tram tracks, he kept thinking: that’s how... And, having locked the door, made some tea, he put the purchased chipped treasure on the turntable, and, looking out the window on the heavy colored clouds gathering on the sunset side, built, as usual, a piece of granite embankment, threw a bridge - and the turrets were now heavy, and the chains were too heavy to lift, and the wind rippled and wrinkled, agitated the wide, gray surface of the Okkervil River, and Vera Vasilievna , stumbling more than expected on her uncomfortable heels, invented by Simeonov, she wrung her hands and bowed her small smoothly combed head to the sloping shoulder, - quietly, so quietly the moon shines, and the fatal thought is full of you, - the moon did not give in, slipped out of her hands like soap, rushed through the torn Okkerville clouds - on this Okkerville there is always something alarming with the sky - how restlessly the transparent, tamed shadows of our imagination rush about when the puffing and smells of living life penetrate their cool, foggy world!

Looking at the sunset rivers, from where the Okkervil River began, already blooming with poisonous greenery, already poisoned by the living old woman’s breath, Simeonov listened to the arguing voices of two fighting demons: one insisted on throwing the old woman out of his head, locking the doors tightly, occasionally opening them for Tamara, living, as before he lived, to the extent of loving, to the extent of languishing, listening in moments of loneliness to the pure sound of a silver trumpet singing over an unknown foggy river, but another demon - a mad young man with a consciousness darkened from translating bad books - demanded to go, run, find Vera Vasilievna - a blind, poor, emaciated, hoarse, withered old woman - to find, bow to her almost deaf ear and shout to her through the years and hardships that she is the only one, that he always loved her, only her so ardently, that love is everything lives in his sick heart that she, a wondrous feather, rising with a voice from the underwater depths, filling the sails, swiftly sweeping through the fiery waters of the night, soaring upward, eclipsing half the sky, destroyed and raised him - Simeonov, the faithful knight - and, crushed by her silver with voices and small peas, trams, books, processed cheese, wet pavements, bird cries, Tamaras, cups, nameless women, passing years, all the frailty of the world fell in different directions. And the old woman, stunned, looks at him with eyes full of tears: how? You know me? can't be? My God! Does anyone else really need this? and could I think! - and, confused, she will not know where to put Simeonov, and he, carefully supporting her dry elbow and kissing her hand, which is no longer white, all stained with age, leads her to the chair, peering into her faded, anciently sculpted face. And, looking with tenderness and pity at the parting in her weak white hair, she will think: oh, how we missed each other in this world! (“Ugh, don’t,” the inner demon grimaced, but Simeonov was inclined to do what was necessary.)

He casually, insultingly simply - for a nickel - got Vera Vasilievna’s address in a street address booth; my heart began to pound: isn’t it Okkerville? of course not. And not the embankment. He bought chrysanthemums at the market - small, yellow, wrapped in cellophane. They have bloomed a long time ago. And at the bakery I chose a cake. The saleswoman, having removed the cardboard cover, showed the chosen item on her outstretched hand: is it good? - but Simeonov did not realize what he was taking, he pulled back, because there was a glimpse of a bakery outside the window - or did it seem? – Tamara, who was going to take it from the apartment, it was warm. Then on the tram I untied the purchase and inquired. That is OK. Fruit. Decent. Under the glassy jelly surface, lonely fruits slept in the corners: there was an apple slice, there - a more expensive corner - a slice of peach, here half a plum frozen in the permafrost, and here - a playful, ladies' corner, with three cherries. The sides are sprinkled with fine confectionery dandruff. The tram shook, the cake trembled, and Simeonov saw on the jelly surface, which shone like a water mirror, a clear imprint of a thumb - whether it was a careless cook or a clumsy saleswoman. It’s okay, the old woman doesn’t see well. And I'll cut it right away. (“Come back,” the guardian demon sadly shook his head, “run, save yourself.”) Simeonov tied it up again, as best he could, and began to look at the sunset. Okkervil was noisy (noisy? noisy?) with a narrow stream, rushing into the granite banks, the banks crumbled like sand and slid into the water. He stood at Vera Vasilievna’s house, transferring gifts from hand to hand. The gate through which he was to enter was decorated with patterned fish scales on top. Behind them is a scary yard. The cat scurried. Yes, that's what he thought. A great forgotten artist should live in just such a yard. Back door, garbage cans, narrow cast-iron railings, uncleanliness. The heart was beating. They have bloomed a long time ago. In my heart is sick.

He called. (“Fool,” spat the inner demon and left Simeonov.) The door swung open under the pressure of noise, singing and laughter gushing from the depths of the dwelling, and immediately Vera Vasilievna flashed, white, huge, rouged, black and thick-browed, flashed there, at the set table, in the illuminated doorway, over a pile of spicy-smelling snacks reaching the door, over a huge chocolate cake topped with a chocolate bunny, a woman laughing loudly, laughing loudly, flashed - and was taken away by fate forever. Fifteen people at the table laughed, looking into her mouth: Vera Vasilievna had a birthday, Vera Vasilievna was telling a joke, choking with laughter. She began to tell him, even when Simeonov was climbing the stairs, she was cheating on him with these fifteen, even when he was toiling and hesitating at the gate, shifting the defective cake from hand to hand, even when he was riding on the tram, even when he locked himself in the apartment and cleared on the dusty table there was space for her silver voice, even when for the first time, with curiosity, I took out a heavy, black disk, shimmering with a lunar path, from a yellowed, torn envelope, even when there was no Simeonov in the world, only the wind stirred the grass and there was silence in the world. She was not waiting for him, thin, at the lancet window, peering into the distance, into the glass streams of the Okkervil River, she laughed in a low voice at the table piled high with dishes, at the salads, cucumbers, fish and bottles, and drank dashingly, enchantress, and dashingly turned around back and forth with a fat body. She betrayed him. Or was it he who betrayed Vera Vasilyevna? Now it was too late to figure it out.

- Another one! – someone shouted with a laugh, whose last name, as it turned out right there, was Potseluev. - Penalty! “And the cake with the imprint and the flowers were taken away from Simeonov, and they squeezed him into the table, forcing him to drink to Vera Vasilievna’s health, health, which, as he was convinced with hostility, she simply had nowhere to put. Simeonov sat, smiled mechanically, nodded his head, grabbed a salted tomato with a fork, looked, like everyone else, at Vera Vasilievna, listened to her loud jokes - his life was crushed, moved in half; you yourself are a fool, now you won’t get anything back, even if you run; the magical diva was kidnapped by the mountain people, and she herself gladly allowed herself to be kidnapped, did not care about the beautiful, sad, bald prince promised by fate, did not want to hear his steps in the noise of the rain and the howling of the wind behind the autumn windows, did not want to sleep, pricked by a magic spindle, enchanted for a hundred years, surrounded herself with mortal, edible people, brought this terrible Potseluev closer to her - especially, intimately close to the very sound of his last name - and Simeonov trampled the tall gray houses on the Okkervil River, destroyed bridges with turrets and threw chains, covered the light gray ones with garbage water, but the river again made its way, and houses stubbornly rose from the ruins, and carriages drawn by a pair of bay horses galloped across indestructible bridges.

- Do you want to smoke? – asked Potseluev. “I gave it up, I don’t carry it around with me.” - And he robbed Simeonov of half a pack. - Who are you? Amateur fan? This is good. Do you have your own apartment? Is there a bath? Gut. And then here it’s only general. You will take her to your place to wash. She loves to wash herself. On the first day we gather and listen to recordings. What do you have? Is there a "dark green emerald"? It's a pity. We've been looking for years, it's just some kind of misfortune. Well, literally nowhere. And these of yours were widely replicated, it’s not interesting. You are looking for “Emerald”. Do you have connections to get smoked sausage? No, it’s harmful for her, it’s just me... to myself. You couldn't have brought smaller flowers, could you? I brought roses, literally the size of my fist. – A hairy fist showed close kisses. – You are not a journalist, are you? There should be a program about her on the radio, our little Verunchik keeps asking. Uh, muzzle. The voice is still like that of a deacon. Give me your address and I'll write it down. “And, pressing Simeonov with his big hand to the chair, “sit, sit, don’t see him off,” Kisses got out and left, taking with him Simeonov’s cake with a fingerprint mark.

Strangers instantly populated the foggy Okkerville shores, dragging their belongings that smelled of a long-ago home - pots and mattresses, buckets and red cats, it was impossible to squeeze through on the granite embankment, here they were already singing their own, sweeping garbage onto the paving stones laid by Simeonov, giving birth, multiplying, walking around to visit a friend, a fat, black-browed old woman pushed, dropped a pale shadow with sloping shoulders, stepped on, crushing, a hat with a veil, crunched under her feet, round old heels rolled in different directions, Vera Vasilyevna shouted across the table: “Pass the mushrooms!” and Simeonov handed it over, and she ate the mushrooms.

He watched how her big nose and the mustache under her nose moved, how she moved her large, black, age-clouded eyes from face to face, then someone turned on the tape recorder, and her silver voice floated, gaining strength - nothing, nothing, – thought Simeonov. I'll get home now, nothing. Vera Vasilievna died, died a long time ago, was killed, dismembered and eaten by this old woman, and the bones have already been sucked, I would have celebrated the wake, but Kissing took away my cake, nothing, here are chrysanthemums for the grave, dry, diseased, dead flowers, very appropriate , I paid tribute to the memory of the deceased, you can get up and leave.

At the door of Simeonov’s apartment, Tamara was hovering - my dear! – she picked him up, carried him in, washed him, undressed him and fed him hot food. He promised Tamara to marry, but in the morning, in a dream, Vera Vasilievna came, spat in his face, called him names and walked off along the damp embankment into the night, swaying on imaginary black heels. And in the morning Potseluev rang and knocked on the door, coming to inspect the bathroom and prepare for the evening. And in the evening he brought Vera Vasilievna to Simeonov to wash, smoked Simeonov’s cigarettes, ate sandwiches, said: “Yes-ah... Verunchik is strength! How many men have left in her time - oh my God!” And against his will, Simeonov listened to how Vera Vasilievna’s heavy body groaned and swayed in the cramped bathtub, how her tender, fat, full side lagged behind the wall of the wet bath with a squelching and smacking sound, how the water went into the drain with a sucking sound, how they slapped on the floor bare feet, and how, finally, throwing back the hook, a red, steaming Vera Vasilyevna comes out in a dressing gown: “Ugh. Good.” Kisses hurried with the tea, and Simeonov, sluggish and smiling, went to rinse after Vera Vasilievna, wash away the gray pellets from the dried walls of the bathtub with a flexible shower, and pick out gray hairs from the drain hole. The gramophone started the kisses, a wondrous, growing, thunderous voice was heard, rising from the depths, spreading its wings, soaring over the world, over the steaming body of Verunchik, drinking tea from a saucer, over Simeonov, bent in his lifelong obedience, over the warm, kitchen Tamara, over everything , which cannot be helped, over the approaching sunset, over the gathering rain, over the wind, over nameless rivers flowing backwards, overflowing their banks, raging and flooding the city, as only rivers can do.

9. Marking

• ü Author
• ü Literary direction
• ü Meaning of the name
• ü Historical era
• ü Details and their role
• ü Music theme
• ü Symbolism of names
• ü Image of Simeonov
• ü Image of Tamara
• ü Image of Vera Vasilievna
• ü The role of minor characters
• ü Image of the city
• ü Artistic and expressive means and their role
• ü Features of the characters' speech
• ü Images-symbols.

10. Job requirements (from our project)

11. Evaluation system (from our project).

The newest literature of the post-socialist space is complex and diverse. In many ways, the modern stage can be considered as the result of the artistic experiments of the 20th century and as the beginning of the formation of new literary trends based on the great and tragic experience, the renewal of the creative method, and an appeal to eternal moral guidelines through the literature of postmodernism.

Goals and objectives:

To introduce a prominent representative of the poetics of postmodernism;

To awaken interest in reading modern literature in its best examples;

To help understand the problems of our reality by studying the works of T.N. Tolstoy;

Deepen students' knowledge of literature;

Activate the creative abilities of students;

To promote the development of independence in the process of researching a work of art.

Expected Result.

Students write essays - reasoning, showing interest in modern Russian literature.

Download:

Preview:

Explanatory note.

Relevance:

The newest literature of the post-socialist space is complex and diverse. In many ways, the modern stage can be considered as the result of the artistic experiments of the 20th century and as the beginning of the formation of new literary trends based on the great and tragic experience, the renewal of the creative method, and an appeal to eternal moral guidelines through the literature of postmodernism.

Goals and objectives:

To introduce a prominent representative of the poetics of postmodernism;

To awaken interest in reading modern literature in its best examples;

To help understand the problems of our reality by studying the works of T.N. Tolstoy;

Deepen students' knowledge of literature;

Activate the creative abilities of students;

To promote the development of independence in the process of researching a work of art.

Expected Result.

Students write essays - reasoning, showing interest in modern Russian literature.

Information sources.

1. Lipovetsky M. Context: the mythology of creativity (Tatyana Tolstaya) // Russian literature in the mirror of criticism: A reader for students. Philol. fak. higher textbook establishments / Comp. S.I. Timina, M.A. Chernyak, N.N. Kyakshto. – St. Petersburg: Faculty of Philology of St. Petersburg State University; M.: Publishing center "Academy", 2003

2. Tolstaya T. Night. - Eksmo, 2010

The conflict between dreams and reality in the story by T.N. Tolstoy

"River Okkervil".

Objectives: Educational:

1. Continue to introduce students to the best examples of modern literature.

2. Master the techniques of analysis and synthesis when reading fiction

works.

3. Introduce T. Tolstoy as a postmodernist (neosentimentalist) writer,

which continued the theme of the fate of the “little man”.

4. Help students understand the meaning of Simeonov’s tragedy, identify

reasons for the tragedy.

Educational:

To form a thinking personality who can understand the idea of ​​a literary text through understanding the problems of the work.

Educators:

1. Develop the intellectual and emotional sphere of students.

2. Understand the concepts:

"life values"; “understanding of a person’s inner world”, “love”.

Method:

1. Analytical reading of the story.

2. Study of the artistic and compositional space of the work.

3. Conduct a partial comparative analysis of T. Tolstoy’s story “Okkervil River” and the poem by A.A. Block "Stranger".

4. The heuristic method is implemented through homework. (D/Z)

Lesson equipment:

1. Students received printouts of their homework in advance. (You can dictate questions to be written in a literature notebook)

2. Presentation.

3. Notes on the board.

4. Printouts of the story by T.N. Tolstoy's "Okkervil River" was received by students in advance. Read the story at home.

4. Printouts of the poem by A.A. The “Stranger” blocks were given out by the teacher in the classroom.

5.If there is an interactive board, then the compositional and spatial sound of the story is displayed on it (“filling in” gradually in literature notebooks); it is possible to work with a chalkboard and in literature notebooks.

Homework given to students along with printouts of the story.

1. Remember what METONYMY is. What effect is achieved by using this trope (see the beginning of the story)? What do we understand about how Simeonov treats Vera Vasilievna?

2. Tell us about Simeonov’s life in his bachelor apartment. What words or phrases do you consider key to understanding the hero’s attitude?

3. What words does Simeonov use to describe family life?

4. What image in the virtual (Virtual (lat.) - possible, one that should or can appear under certain conditions) world - the world of Simeonov's dreams - turns out to be permanent?

5. What happened in Simeonov’s life, why did the virtual world of the Okkervil River begin to change? What feelings does Simeonov experience?

6. What happened to Simeonov’s life when he was at Vera Vasilievna’s birthday party? Why does THIS Vera Vasilievna cause such hostility in Simeonov?

7. What impression does Vera Vasilievna’s voice make on Simeonov?

During the classes.

(Notes on the board are made in advance)

On the screen:

(On the slide: Postmodernism (definition).

The concept of “postmodernism” is quite broad, but we will mean by postmodernism primarily modern literature. Although postmodernist poetics is in opposition to classical literature, it at the same time does not exist without it, without reminiscences from the classics. What is alien becomes the author’s, another, and the other becomes ours. There is no postmodernism in literature copyright relationship with the characters. The author is detached and often only an observer. Within the framework of the currents and trends of postmodernism, researchers classify T. Tolstoy as a neo-sentimentalist. (Slide) For her, private life, specifically someone’s life, is significant.

Speaking about intertextuality characteristic of postmodernism, today in class we will remember the poem by A.A. Block "Stranger". This poem will help us understand the idea of ​​T. Tolstoy’s story “Okkervil River”, and T. Tolstoy’s story will make A. Blok’s poem shine with new facets, which, I think, will answer the question hidden in the topic of the lesson: what is the conflict between dreams and reality in T. Tolstoy’s story “The Okkervil River”.

What work comes to mind when we read the beginning of T. Tolstoy’s story “The Okkervil River”? (A.S. Pushkin “The Bronze Horseman”)

Let's pay attention to the epigraph to the lesson. (Reading the epigraph). Note that T. Tolstaya in the first lines of the story reproduces the same picture. Why do you think, for what? (An atmosphere of anxiety, catastrophe, and expectation of something terrible is created.) But the poem “The Bronze Horseman” also declares one of the “cross-cutting” themes in Russian literature of the 19th century.

Remember which one? (The theme of the “little man”) (Slide “People from the outskirts”)

D/Z - Tell me about Simeonov’s life in his bachelor apartment.

(Told by one student, additions to his story are possible)

D/Z – What words or phrases are, in your opinion, key to understanding the hero’s attitude? (loneliness, he felt good, peace and freedom). Note that these words would help make the retelling vivid and accurate.

In today's lesson we will try to visually embody the compositional and spatial plan of the story. This will help us in understanding the idea of ​​the work.

(look at the diagram)

Loneliness …

But was the loneliness so cherished by Simeonov complete? (No, he was alone with Vera Vasilievna. It was like a date).

D/Z - Let us remember what metonymy is?

(Metonymy (gr.) - renaming. Using the name of one object instead of the name of another based on an external or internal connection between them).

D/Z - Find this artistic device in the text. What effect is achieved by using metonymy?

(Simeonov has not just a date, but a special, secret, love relationship with Vera Vasilievna. And this, according to Simeonov, “they had mutually”)

D/Z - What words does Simeonov use to describe family life?

(Trap, catches the soul, grabs it, throws a tablecloth over the head)

And where does Simeonov’s soul end up, having escaped from an imaginary family captivity? (“... in a dark magic circle filled with lights, outlined by the voice of Vera Vasilievna...”)

So what, captivity again? ...

Where does Simeonov feelyourself truly free? (In a dream, in a virtual world built by him on the banks of the Okkervil River).

Let’s read, what kind of world is Simeonov building in his imagination?

Let's turn to the notebooks. Let's return to the space of the story. On which bank do we place Simeonov’s virtual world? (On the opposite of reality)

2. Let us identify the key “details”, “signs” of Simeonov’s dream on “that” bank of the river.

(we fill out the table “Compositional and artistic space...” as the lesson progresses)

Guys, at the very beginning of the lesson I talked about intertextuality (i.e., interpenetration) of postmodern literature and classical literature. And in this regard, let me remember the following lines:

And every evening, at the appointed hour...

….

(by heart) I look behind the dark veil...

Learned? Yes, this is Blok’s “Stranger”. Why did I remember this particular poem? (The details of Simeonov’s “dream” and the details - signs of the Stranger are similar. For the lyrical hero of the poem, the Stranger is the same dream. This is the representation of someone ideal. Name similar details: “girl’s figure, one, dark veil”)

How do you understand Blok’s verse “Breathing with Spirits and Fogs”? (She is a Stranger, she is beautiful and there is a mystery in herself, her image is mysterious.) Let’s listen to how Simeonov’s words sound in dissonance with Blok’s lines: “... and the fog for this occasion should be blue. Bring on the blue fog! The fog has set in...” Why do these words hurt your ears so much? (Simeonov suddenly finds himself among the vulgar visitors of the restaurant, he suddenly turns out to be one of the “regulars” there. And the fog is cast because, perhaps, the dream is already drying up?)

And Simeonov, tired, what does he do with his dream? (read)

(Destroys it). He leaves the restaurant, the scenery changes...

What event happened in Simeonov’s life that caused the virtual world of the Okkervil River to begin to change? What feelings did Simeonov experience?

(“Heavy at heart...”)

1. Let's look at the notes on the board.

Morphing occurs not only with the river, but also with the heroine of Simeonov’s romance novel. What's going on? How does Simeonov see Vera Vasilievna?

And yet, what is she still like for Simeonov?

What happens to reality at the same time? (The world is falling apart)

Why is it “offensive” for Simeonov to get Vera Vasilievna’s address in a street address booth?

(Reality begins to invade the dream)

What happens on the banks of the Simeon River Okkervil while he is riding on a tram to Vera Vasilievna’s obtained address?

Morphing occurs not only with the river but also... “He called...”. Where do we place Vera Vasilievna in our space? To the granite embankment of Okkervil? No. Into reality.

What happens to Simeonov’s life when he finds himself at Vera Vasilievna’s birthday party? “His life was crushed, moved in half...” Why does Vera Vasilievna at a noisy table cause such hostility in Simeonov? (She is more alive than Simeonov himself)

And then Simeonov begins to take revenge on his dream. How? “He trampled the gray tall houses on the Okkervil River...” But... it turns out that suddenly, quite unexpectedly, Simeonov realizes that his Okkervil banks are no longer his. Read about it.

! - Simeonov did not need another Vera Vasilievna, he only knew the one from the granite Okkerville shore. The real Vera Vasilievna turned out to be a stranger, but, alas, not Blok’s, not at all. And why?

Let's go back to the beginning of the story.

How did Simeonov's love for Vera Vasilievna begin (I listened to her romances) What impression did Vera Vasilievna's voice make on Simeonov? (She sang only for him, her voice was addressed only to him.)

Did Simeonov follow Vera Vasilievna’s voice (No, he was never able to tear himself away from the shore, he remained in the magic circle, among the toy houses.) I SHOW THE DIAGRAM ON THE BOARD. This is Simeonov’s conflict with the world and himself.

Verunchik is brought to Simeonov’s home. Does he hear Vera Vasilievna's voice from the record? (No, he listens to the sounds in his apartment, to what Verunchik is doing.)

Continue the associative series: FAITH (HOPE-LOVE). Hope is destroyed (i.e. DREAM, and Simeonov is unable to contain love within himself. He turned out to be weak)

Let's return to the lines of A. Blok's poem. What allows the lyrical hero of the poem, despite the vulgarity of the life around him, to keep “a treasure in his soul”? (“AND I SEE THE enchanted SHORE and the enchanted DISTANCE”) This is the opportunity to break away from everyday life and not betray what “lives in my sick heart” - LOVE. There is no place for Simeonov either in the world of dreams or in reality. This is the meaning of the hero’s tragedy, the misfortune of the “little man’s” life.

D/Z - Choose for yourself the statement of critics A. Alexandrova or L. Bakhnov. (Slide) Do you agree or disagree with their opinion? Prove your point of view based on the content of the story you read by T. Tolstoy “The Okkervil River”.

The unbearable grayness of existence. Where to run? How to hide from her? Or maybe dispel it with the help of a colorful dream? Everyone has their own recipe, which, however, does not guarantee complete healing and is accompanied by a lot of side effects, such as even more viscous, deep disappointment. As they say, we treat one thing, and another appears, no less serious. This kind of grief-treatment is discussed in the story of the modern writer Tatyana Tolstoy “The Okkervil River” (A summary of the work follows).

Storybook

1999 The publishing house "Podkova" is publishing a new collection of short stories by Tatyana Tolstoy under the rather unusual title "The Okkervil River", a brief summary of which is given in this article. Needless to say, the book was a great success among a wide range of readers. Why? As they say, the reason does not like to walk alone and takes a myriad of friends with him. Therefore, there are many reasons why the book so quickly found its reader and fell in love with him for many years, and one of them is the undoubted talent of the author, Tatyana Tolstoy, her poetic style, a little willful, full of epithets, metaphors, and unexpected comparisons, her peculiar humor, her mysterious, romantically sad, magical world, which either comes into violent conflict with the mortal world, somewhere meaningless, oozing with melancholy, then gets along with it quite amicably and peacefully, prompting philosophical reflection.

Summary: “River Okkervil”, Fat Tatyana

The collection also includes the story of the same name “The Okkervil River”. In short, the plot of the story is simple. Lives in the large, “wet, flowing, wind beating on the windows” city of St. Petersburg, someone named Simeonov - a big-nosed, aging, balding bachelor. His life is simple and lonely: a small apartment, translations of boring books from some rare language, and for dinner - processed cheese fished from between the windows and sweet tea. But is she really as lonely and joyless as she might seem at first glance? Not at all. After all, he has Vera Vasilievna...

In the story “The Okkervil River,” a brief summary of which cannot convey all the beauty of the work, her radiant voice, eclipsing half the sky, coming from the old gramophone, spoke words of love to him every evening, or rather not to him, she did not love him so passionately, but in essence , only to him, only him, and her feelings were mutual. Simeonov's loneliness with Vera Vasilievna was the most blissful, the most long-awaited, the most peaceful. No one and nothing could compare with him: neither his family, nor the comfort of home, nor Tamara, lying in wait for him here and there, with her matrimonial snares. He only needs the ethereal Vera Vasilievna, beautiful, young, pulling on a long glove, in a small hat with a veil, mysteriously and leisurely walking along the embankment of the Okkervil River.

The Okkervil River (you are currently reading a summary of the work) is the final stop of the tram. The name is alluring, but Simeonov had never been there, did not know its surroundings, landscapes and did not want to know. Maybe this is a “quiet, picturesque world, slowed down like in a dream,” or maybe... This “maybe,” probably gray, “outskirts, vulgar,” seen once, will freeze and poison him with its hopelessness.

One day in the fall

The summary of the work “Okkervil River” does not end there. One autumn, while buying another rare record with Vera Vasilievna’s enchanting romances from a “crocodile” speculator, Simeonov learns that the singer is alive and well, despite her advanced years, and lives somewhere in Leningrad, albeit in poverty. The brightness of her talent, as often happens, quickly dimmed and soon went out, and with her, diamonds, a husband, a son, an apartment and two lovers flew into oblivion. After this heartbreaking story, two demons started a serious argument in Simeonov’s head. One preferred to leave the old woman alone, lock the door, occasionally opening it slightly for Tamara, and continue to live “without unnecessary expenses”: love in moderation, languor in moderation, work in moderation. The other, on the contrary, demanded to immediately find the poor old woman and make her happy with his love, attention, care, but not for free - in return, he would finally look into her eyes full of tears and see in them only immeasurable joy and long-awaited love.

Long-awaited meeting

No sooner said than done. The street address booth suggested the desired address, albeit in a casual and even somehow insulting manner - for only five kopecks. The market helped with flowers - small ones, wrapped in cellophane. The bakery offered a fruit cake, decent, although with a thumbprint on the jelly surface: it’s okay, the old lady doesn’t see well and probably won’t notice... He called. The door swung open. Noise, singing, laughter, a table littered with salads, cucumbers, fish, bottles, fifteen laughing people and a white, huge, rouged Vera Vasilievna, telling a joke. It's her birthday today. Simeonov was unceremoniously squeezed into the table, took away the flowers and cake, and forced him to drink to the health of the birthday girl. He ate, drank, smiled mechanically: his life was crushed, his “magical diva” was stolen, or rather, she gladly allowed herself to be stolen. Who did she exchange him for, a handsome, sad, albeit bald, but prince? For fifteen mortals.

Life goes on

It turns out that on the first day of every month, Vera Vasilievna’s amateur fans gather in her communal apartment, listen to old records and help as much as they can. They asked if Simeonov had his own bath, and if so, they would bring a “magical diva” to him to bathe, because here it was shared, and she loved bathing with a passion. And Simeonov sat and thought: Vera Vasilievna died, we must return home, marry Tamara and eat hot food every day.

The next day in the evening they brought Vera Vasilievna to Simeonov’s house for a swim. After long ablutions, she came out all red, steamy, barefoot in a dressing gown, and Simeonov, smiling and lethargic, went to rinse the bath, wash off the gray pellets and pull out the clogged gray hair from the drain hole...

Conclusion

Have you read the summary of “The Okkervil River” (Tolstaya T.)? Fine. Now we advise you to open the first page of the story and start reading the text itself. About a dark, cold city, about a bachelor's feast on a spread newspaper, about ham scraps, about precious dates with Vera Vasilyevna, which Tamara so brazenly and unceremoniously sought to destroy... The author does not spare paints, makes savory strokes, sometimes even too much, drawing every detail, capturing the smallest details, fully and prominently. It's impossible not to admire!

3.1 The conflict between reality and dreams in the story "Okkervil River"

First of all, I would like to dwell on the story of Tatyana Tolstoy, in which the postmodernist theme of the eternal return of cultural signs, repetition, and the spontaneity of existence in culture is especially impressively expressed. This is the Okkervil River. The hero of the story is Simeonov, an anchorite and hermit, all his life he has been collecting records with recordings of the forgotten and, as it seems to him, long-dead singer Vera Vasilievna, whose image was created in detail by his imagination. Maybe Simonov even loves the fantastic Vera Vasilievna. Every evening he plays at the gramophone, as old as the heroine of his dreams. With romances he poisons his imagination, yearns for a life he never knew, for a woman - a languid naiad of the turn of the century. Then it turns out that she is alive, and, trembling, Simeonov goes to meet her, expecting to see a wretched, beggar old woman living out her life in all sorts of neglect. But it turns out that Vera Vasilievna is prospering, enjoying life, the attention of dozens of ardent enthusiasts who call her Verunchik, and she’s not a fool for a drink or a snack. And suddenly it turns out that she - the object of love - is alive, moreover, she lives somewhere nearby, that she is not blind, poor, emaciated and hoarse, as Simeonov wanted, huge, white, black-browed, laughing loudly. Moreover, she still has her wonderful voice. The only thing she is dissatisfied with is that she has a bad bath in her apartment, and she decides to benefit Simeonov by using his good bath. This suits the most nimble of her fans, a certain Kisses. The ending of the story is this:

“Simeonov listened against his will to how Vera Vasilievna’s heavy body grunted and swayed in the cramped bathtub, how her tender, fat, full side lagged behind the wall of the wet bath with a squelching and smacking sound, how the water went into the drain with a sucking sound, how they slapped the bottom bare feet and how, finally, throwing back the hook, a red, steaming Vera Vasilievna comes out in a dressing gown, “Ugh. Good." "Kisses was in a hurry with the tea, and Simonov, sluggish and smiling, went to rinse after Vera Vasilievna, wash off the gray pellets from the dried walls of the bath with a flexible shower, and pick out gray hairs from the drain hole. The gramophone started the kisses, a wondrous, growing thunderous voice could be heard, rising from the depths, spreading its wings, soaring over the world, over the steamed body of Verunchik, drinking tea from a saucer, over Simeonov, bent in his lifelong obedience, over the warm kitchen Tamara, over everything. Nothing can be helped, over the approaching sunset, over the gathering rain, over the wind, over nameless rivers flowing backwards, overflowing their banks, raging and flooding the city, as rivers know how to do.”

A completely Nabokovian story. The very movement of the phrase is Nabokovian. But after analyzing the work, it becomes clear that this kind of roll call is not epigonism, but a conscious technique. But the very meaning of the story is the same, postmodern: the reproduction of a cultural model under the sign of parody. Alexander Zholkovsky found that Vera Vasilievna is Akhmatova. His article "Literary Review", 1995, No. 6) explores a lot of relevant interests, the most interesting of which, in my opinion, is connected not with Akhmatova, but with the theme of Pushkin's "Bronze Horseman": the great Peter and the little man Eugene with his Parasha (analogue in which Tolstoy’s loving Tamara appears). Akhmatova here can be understood as a sign of cultural greatness, eternally returning to consciousness and life like a river going backwards. But the majestic Neva appears as an unknown Okkerville, Vera Vasilyevna as Verunchik, and the famous flood, sung by Russian poets, as the swaying of her overweight body in the bathtub. And this translation of the great theme into a parody, comic plan is something new that the writer brings to the Russian cultural canon.

In the story “Okkervil River”, the hero - Simeonov - in contrast to the gloomy reality, builds in his imagination one of those towns in a snuffbox that are found with elastic constancy in almost every story: “No, don’t be disappointed, going to the Okkervil River is better mentally line its banks with long-haired willows, arrange steep-topped houses, albeit leisurely inhabitants. Maybe in German caps, in striped stockings, with long porcelain pipes in their teeth."

In a town like this, which everyone who had picture books remembers, time does not exist, because there are only toy people here. There are no living ones - and there is no need.

So Simeonov from “Okkervil River” has the same sad discovery when, having fallen in love with Vera Vasilievna’s voice, the voice that always sings from the record the wonderful “No, it’s not you I love so passionately,” he decided to find a living singer. While she walked in round heels along the cobblestone pavement, the world was reasonable, beautiful, cozy. But the real Vera Vasilievna - the old woman who leaves gray pellets on the walls of the bathtub - is terrible. But which one is real? - asks Tolstaya. That one, airy, graceful, from the Okkervil River, or that one, chewing mushrooms and telling jokes? The real one is the one whose voice “a wondrous, growing thunderous voice, rising from the depths, spreading its wings, soaring above the world” managed to be wrested from the power of time and locked on a round gramophone disc - forever.

Let's consider, in the words of the critic Elena Nevzglyadova, what details the author chooses for a detailed examination of the hero.

“...Simeonov, feeling big-nosed, balding, especially feeling his old years around his face and cheap socks far below on the border of existence, put the kettle on...” Is it possible to say so: “Not old years around his face?! However, with the help of this strange expression a state appears Simeonov's soul - silent, inhibited, stagnant somewhere on the sidelines and turned inward, somehow pitiful, unhealthy, but at the same time sober, assessing - is it familiar to everyone or only Simeonov? - and it is clear. What is beyond this phrase of his You can't get through to it except through the barbed wire of stylistic irregularity.

So, Simeonov put the kettle on, wiped the dust off the table with his sleeve, cleared the space from the books with their white bookmarks sticking out, set up the gramophone, selecting a book of the right thickness to slip under its lame corner, and in advance, blissfully in advance, removed it from the torn, stained the yellowness of the envelope to Vera Vasilievna - an old, heavy, anthracite-cast circle. Not split into smooth concentric circles - one romance on each side."

How densely the space between Simeonov and the gramophone standing in front of him is crowded - so densely that there is nowhere for an apple to fall; there is room for only two questions on the periphery of consciousness: “why?” and “is this what they want to tell us?”

Why, one wonders, are so many things placed in the course of Simeonov’s complex actions as he puts on the record?

But the fact is that mental states are too connected with the material world around us; they cannot be separated from the visual and sound images that inhabit space. What we feel. It exists together with what we see and hear. And through the environment it can be transmitted with luck."

In reality, the one who is mistaken is the one who, in laughter, in the very mockery of the dreams with which a person diligently surrounds himself, does not feel his own author’s longing, now fulfilled, and the desire of the unfulfilled, from which grows almost a requiem for the dreams and ideals destroyed by life, destroyed easily, carelessly, inevitably. And this discouraging lightness forces us to introduce buffoonery into the Requiem, reduce the serious mood, and resort to various conventions.

“When the zodiac sign changed to Scorpio, it was already becoming quite windy, dark and rainy (Okkervil River). This is instead of “At the end of October.” But what could happen at the end of October? A comic episode with Simeonov, no more, They say, he dreamed, fussed, and life responded: “Without clicking its beak.” And the zodiac sign... Here is a leap into space, to the stars, although they are real or cut out of gold paper - it is unknown, it is not visible from below.

“Apparent semantics,” which arises according to the laws of a poetic text, reflects the deception of the world. It is impossible to fight it with conventional means. But there is love and there is creativity, which is capable of overcoming this deception, mastering it, removing it from itself, turning it into material - into a theme, into expressive means. Inspiration saves you from feelings of inferiority, from banality and absurdity.

A novel is a shared life between the reader and the characters. But only with the characters? In the stories of Tatyana Tolstaya, together with the hero - the author, we ponder the eternal questions of existence. We look at the lives of different people, both loved ones and strangers (most often the latter, and this is no coincidence) - so that, leaving them aside, we find out something important for ourselves. Let's see how this problem is implemented in the next story.

"Caucasian break" in prose by L.N. Tolstoy and modern Russian writers

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Alexander Blok

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Analysis of Galina Captuca's story "The Dzheltula River, which has its own name"

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Innovation of Chekhov the playwright (using the example of the play "The Cherry Orchard")

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The system of mythopoetic symbols in M. Osorgin’s novel “Sivtsev Vrazhek”

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Comparative analysis of "Pinocchio" by C. Collodi and "The Golden Key, or the Adventures of Pinocchio" by A.N. Tolstoy

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Theme of money in Russian literature

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The tradition of the family novel in Western European literature at the beginning of the twentieth century (based on Thomas Mann's novel "Buddenbrooks")

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The kingdom of the Berendeys in the folklore and mythological drama of A.N. Ostrovsky "Snow Maiden"

The conflict of the tale is based on the collision and poetic development of the opposing forces of heat and cold. The beginning of the conflict is in the world of elements, between Frost and Spring, the union of which is unnatural by its very nature...

Essay text:

The book of short stories by Tatyana Tolstoy, The Okkervil River, was published in 1999 by the Podkova publishing house and was immediately a great success among readers.
The writer solves the difficult artistic task of capturing the very moment of one or another human sensation, impression, experience, and looking at everyday life from the point of view of eternity. To do this, she turns to fairy-tale and mythological-poetic traditions.
T. Tolstoy’s extended metaphors turn everyday life into a fairy tale, take us away from the problems of everyday life and thereby allow the reader to give free rein to their imagination, indulge in nostalgic memories and philosophical reflections.
However, the fairy tale is destroyed when confronted with rough reality, as happens, for example, in the story Date with a Bird. The mysterious sorceress Tamila turns out to be a degenerate girl with the most prosaic problems for the boy Petya. The mysterious, sad, magical world becomes for him dead and empty, saturated with sulfur, dull, oozing melancholy.
The conflict in Tolstoy's stories is often the clash of the characters with themselves, with their own existence in its problems and contradictions. The world is finite, the world is curved, the world will close, and it will close on Vasily Mikhailovich (Circle). Time flows and rocks dear Shura’s boat on its back, and splashes wrinkles on her unique face (Dear Shura). ... Locked in his chest, gardens, seas, cities were tossing and turning, their owner was Ignatiev... (Blank slate).
The author's special interest in the images of children and old people attracts attention, since both of them do not feel time, living in their own special closed world. At the same time, the soul of a child is closer to a fairy tale, the soul of an old man to eternity.
T. Tolstaya creates a wide variety of metaphors for childhood and old age. For example, in the story Most Beloved, childhood is depicted as the fifth season of the year: ... it was childhood in the yard. In the story they sat on the golden porch... it is defined as the beginning of time: In the beginning there was a garden. Childhood was a garden. Childhood is a golden time, when it seems that life is eternal. Only birds die.
Old age is portrayed by the author as the end of the countdown of time, the loss of the idea of ​​the sequence of events and the changeability of life forms. So, time in the house of Alexandra Ernestovna from the story Dear Shura lost its way, got stuck halfway somewhere near Kursk, stumbled over the nightingale rivers, got lost, blind, on the sunflower plains.
In T. Tolstoy’s stories there are generally many characters who have no future, because they live in the power of the past, their childhood impressions, naive dreams, and old fears. Such, for example, are Rimma (Fire and Dust), Natasha (The Moon Came Out from the Human), Peter from the story of the same name.
However, there are also heroes who live forever in their love for people and their memory (Sonya from the story of the same name, Zhenechka from the story The Most Beloved); in his creativity (Grisha from The Poet and Muse, the artist from The Mammoth Hunt); in the world of his vivid fantasies (Owl from the story Fakir). All these are people who know how to convey their life energy to others in its most varied manifestations through self-sacrifice, art, and the ability to live beautifully.
However, almost all of T. Tolstoy’s images paradoxically bifurcate, life situations are depicted as ambiguous. For example, it is difficult to come to an unambiguous conclusion about who the Owl from the story Fakir really is. Is this a giant, the all-powerful master of the world of dreams, or a slave of his fantasies, a pitiful dwarf, a clown in the robe of a padishah?
Another example of such a split image is found in the story Dear Shura. Here, the narrator’s bright impressions from communicating with Anna Ernestovna sharply contrast with the derogatory descriptions of the old woman: Stockings are pulled down, legs are in the gateway, the black suit is greasy and worn out.
In the story, Sonya also creates an ambiguous image of a naive fool, which the author is clearly ironic about. At the same time, the heroine, who with all her appearance and behavior personifies stupidity and absurdity, suddenly becomes the only positive character and an example of self-sacrifice, saving the life of a loved one in besieged Leningrad.
Thus, the connection between T. Tolstoy’s prose and the traditions of postmodern literature is revealed, in which there is a constant splitting of images and a change in the tone of the narrative: from compassion to evil irony, from understanding to mockery.
Many of the heroes of her stories are losers, loners, and sufferers. Before us appears a kind of gallery of failed princes and deceived Cinderellas, for whom the fairy tale of life did not work out. And the greatest tragedy for a person occurs when he is excluded from the game, as happened with one of the most famous characters, Tolstoy Peters, with whom no one wanted to play.
However, do the characters always find the author’s sympathy?
T. Tolstaya rather does not sympathize with man, but regrets the transience of life, the futility of human efforts. Probably, the lyric is being ironic about Vasily Mikhailovich from the story of Krug, who, in search of personal happiness based on the numbers on the linen handed over to the laundry, simply fumbled around in the darkness and grabbed the usual next wheel of fate.
The writer also laughs at Ignatiev, the ruler of his world, struck by melancholy, who wants to start life from scratch (Clean Slate). She also mocks Zoya’s pursuit of family happiness, in which all means are good (Mammoth Hunt).
Moreover, the author takes such irony to the point of grotesqueness. So, Ignatiev doesn’t just want to change his life. He seriously decides to undergo an operation to remove his soul. Zoya, in her struggle for her husband, goes so far as to throw a noose around the neck of her chosen one.
In connection with this, in Tolstoy’s work a symbolic image of the corridor of life appears: from the corridor of a communal apartment to the image of the path of life. So, in the story A Month Came Out from the Uman, a long communal corridor runs through Natasha’s house, which defines the boundaries of the heroine’s existence. This image also appears in the story Dear Shura: the long way back along the dark corridor with two teapots in hands.
Towards the end of life, the light corridor (Heavenly Flame) closes. It narrows down to a cramped pencil case called the universe, a cold tunnel with frost-covered walls (Circle), where every human act is strictly defined and pre-written in the book of eternity. In this closed space, a person struggles, waking up, in the unambiguous quest of his today (the month has left the fog). This is the time when life is gone and the voice of the future sings for others (Fire and Dust).
However, such characters as the angelic Seraphim from the story of the same name, who hated people and tried not to look at pig snouts, camel mugs, hippopotamus cheeks, do not meet with the author’s understanding. At the end of the story he turns into the ugly Serpent Gorynych.
Probably, the author's position is most accurately formulated in the words of the Owl, the hero of the story Fakir: Let us sigh about the fleetingness of existence and thank the creator for giving us a taste of this and that at the feast of life.
This idea largely explains the writer’s close attention to the world of things and its detailed depiction in her work. Therefore, another problem in T. Tolstoy’s stories is the relationship between man and thing, the inner world of the individual and the external world of objects. It is no coincidence that detailed descriptions of interiors often appear in her works: for example, Filin’s apartment (Fakir), Alexandra Ernestovna’s room (Dear Shura), Zhenechka’s things (My Favorite), Tamila’s dacha (Date with a Bird).
Unlike L. Petrushevskaya, who most often depicts repulsive objects that expose the animality of human nature, T. Tolstaya expresses the idea of ​​​​the value of a thing. In her stories, special objects emerge that have filtered through the years, not caught in the meat grinder of time. These are peculiar keys to our past, forgotten signs of an unknown alphabet, a door, a crack... on that day, an encrypted pass to where, to the other side.
Such is Sonya’s enamel dove, because fire does not take doves (Sonya); old photographs from Maryivanna’s reticule (Love or not); an unused train ticket to visit a loved one (Dear Shura); Sergei's burnt hat (Sleep well, son) and ҭ. P.
The originality of T. Tolstoy’s artistic techniques is determined by the problems of her creativity. Thus, the theme of memories, the power of the past over the present determines the photographic principle of the image: the writer strives to capture a fleeting impression, a short moment of life. This is directly stated in Sonya’s story: ...suddenly a sunny room will open up, as if in the air, as a bright, living photograph...
An artistic detail plays a special role in Tolstoy’s stories, which takes on the meaning of a symbol. For example, the ring with a silver toad in the story Date with a Bird expresses the idea of ​​​​destroying a child's perception of the world. Owl's silver beard is a sign of belonging to another, fairy-tale world (Fakir). Peters' plush hare from the story of the same name symbolizes unfulfilled childhood hopes and lost illusions of youth.
The style of T. Tolstoy’s stories is also unique, which is often defined by critics as ornamental prose. This concept implies an elegant style, the use of extended metaphors, and synonymous repetitions.
We can talk about an unusual verbal game in the writer’s stories, when one word carries with it a chain of associations and related comparisons. This reflects the fragmentation and selectivity of human consciousness, which records only the most memorable episodes of life.
A striking example of this can be the beginning of the story My Favorite: ...The winds rush to the ground with their chests, rise again and are carried away, rushing the smells of granite and awakening leaves into the night sea, so that somewhere on a distant ship, among the waves, under a running starfish, a sleepless traveler , crossing the night, raised his head, inhaled the rushing air and thought: earth.
Tolstoy's prose is unusually lyrical, many of her stories resemble poetic sketches. In some of them, like a work of poetry, even sound writing appears: The dream came... frightening with closets, women, plague buboes, black tambourines... (Peter).
So, we can say that in the works of T. Tolstoy, prose is combined with poetry, a fairy tale is intertwined with reality. The philosophy and lyricism of this amazing writer are reflected in her essays Tourists and Pilgrims and Women's Day, also presented in the collection under review.

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